


Quinquae Viae

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Incest, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-16
Updated: 2007-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways Sam knows Dean loves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quinquae Viae

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mousapelli for looking it over, and for the random Latin help. For luzdeestrellas.

**one**

"The unhcegila is a lizard-like creature," Dean is saying, reading from Dad's journal, voice low and soothing. "Possibly resembling a dragon. In Lakota mythology, it's responsible for mysterious deaths and disappearances..."

Sam knows the description as well as Dean does, has read it a hundred times himself by now, so he tunes out the words and lets the cadence of Dean's voice lull him, the way it always does. Always has. He remembers being a little kid, huddled in a mess of blankets and pillows, Dean's arm around him and a book in his other hand, reading them both to sleep. He remembers long trips from one dead-end town to another, dust kicking up behind them, Dad a solid, comforting presence in the driver's seat, hands easy on the wheel, and Dean's voice low and steady on, reading from _Sports Illustrated_ or the local paper or _The Field Guide to Demons_, after one too many arguments about the radio.

He remembers sitting in the dark, waiting for Dad to come home from some hunt or other, always waiting in the dark, worrying, and Dean's voice singing along with the radio or reciting the lines to episodes of _Golden Girls_, because they'd seen them all so many times they practically know them by heart, quiet comfort he could still offer after they got too old for cuddling in a pillow fort.

Dean doesn't have to read to Sam now--Sam's been reading on his own since he was three--but that he still does makes Sam feel warm and safe, even when everything else is falling to pieces around them.

*

**two**

The car is home, more than any place they've ever actually lived; has been for as long as Sam can remember, and only the apartment he gets with Jess ever comes close to giving him that same safe feeling (he ignores the little voice in the back of his head telling him that it's false safety built on lies, right up until the moment the illusion is ripped away in blood and fire). The car is _Dad_, is _Dean_, is everything he'd known he'd never be, the embodiment of some secret language only Dad and Dean could speak, and the symbol all their failed attempts to teach him, and his failed efforts to learn.

Even when he'd learned to drive, he'd never felt comfortable behind the wheel of the Impala, always felt like a pretender on Dad's throne, like Jacob trying to steal Esau's birthright. And Dean had never really done anything to dispel that impression, had always treated it--her, Dean would correct sharply--as his, even before it really was.

So when Dean says, "You wanna drive for a while?" it takes a few seconds for Sam to parse the words, translate them into something recognizable, and he's still not sure he understands.

"In your whole life, you never asked me that," he answers, laughing.

Dean gives the verbal equivalent of a shrug. "Just thought you might want to. Never mind."

"Look, man, you're worried about me; I get it, and thank you, but I'm perfectly okay."

Dean hmms in response, disbelieving the lie but willing to let it drop, and Sam feels warm all over, and for the first time in a long time, like he belongs.

*

**three**

Dean hands him a cup of coffee, and Sam tears the lid carefully, small triangle of plastic coming off easily in his hand, steam rising hot and fragrant to tickle his nose. He takes a sip, expecting bitter gas station coffee that's been left on the burner too long, but it's _perfect_, two thirds coffee, one third milk, with two sugars.

When Sam does it himself, he breaks open the two sugars (not one, and not three, but _two_) into the bottom of the cup, and pours the coffee in on top--fills two thirds of the cup--and then he adds the milk (always whole milk, thanks, and never ever skim, not in coffee, ever) and stirs gently. He's been making his coffee this way since he was thirteen, and Dad started letting him have some with breakfast every morning. He'd been unable to drink it black the way Dad and Dean did (and he still doesn't believe Dean ever liked it that way, is convinced that during his years away, Dean was drinking his coffee laced with milk and sugar, and possibly flavored syrups, though he has no proof, and Dean would laugh himself sick if Sam said anything), and over the years, it's become a comforting ritual, one he fled to often at Stanford whenever he needed a few seconds to think. Jess used to tease him about how anal he was about his coffee, and how he would make this bitchy face (which she swore was adorable, but he's pretty sure that's not the word Dean would use) when it wasn't the way he wanted it.

Dean's been paying attention, though, has always paid attention, and when he hands Sam a cup of coffee, it's always exactly how he likes it.

"Thanks, man," he mumbles, waiting for the caffeine to hit his nervous system, wake him up after a rough week of too much hunting and not enough sleep.

Dean grins in response, and it's a jolt to Sam's system, even better than caffeine.

*

**four**

Sam knows all the scars on Dean's body, has mapped them over the years with hands and, more recently, lips--Houston, Hartford, Aberdeen; black dog, lamia, vengeful spirit--a hunter's journal of protective signs carved in Braille on Dean's skin, interrupting the smooth Morse code of his freckles, and they all say the same thing. Every scar is a testament to Dean's willingness to put himself between Sam and danger, and Sam touches them with a reverence others might feel for holy relics or precious gems.

Surprisingly, Dean doesn't get impatient, lets Sam take his time, memorizing the taste and texture of Dean's skin, the perfect architecture of his bones, the curve of his ribs and the knobs of his spine, the salt-slick taste of sweat collecting in the hollow of his throat, of pre-come beading on the head of his cock, of the pink-white burn scar on his shoulder.

Sam breathes in when Dean breathes out, the only air in the world as far as they're concerned. It's always been this way, and always will be, and now Sam not only understands, but he accepts this silent language that they speak, that shapes their world in darkness, salt, and fire, in blood and flesh and bone, the scars Dean wears the symbols of all the promises he keeps.

*

**five**

Sam lies awake while Dean snores away, oblivious, next to him, the jut of his hip warm against Sam's thigh, and one arm slung carelessly across Sam's belly, Dean saying, I'm here, I gotcha, even when he's not awake to speak. The contact should be reassuring, but each breath Dean takes and each beat of Dean's heart sounds like a clock ticking, the inexorable countdown Sam's trying to stop.

Hic, haec, hoc, Sam repeats silently, huius, huius, huius, an old childhood habit to try and lull himself to sleep. He thinks of Pastor Jim's tenor and his own piping pre-teen voice reciting, huic, huic, huic, hunc, hanc, hoc, hoc, hac, hoc, in the rectory kitchen over mugs of hot chocolate the week they got snowed in, a happy memory that usually warms him, but brings no real comfort at the moment. He's moved on to qui, quae, quod when he finally gives up, presses his face to the crook of Dean's neck, the soft brush of Dean's hair tickling his nose. Sam breathes him in, whispering, "Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant," like a prayer to long-dead Venus, and presses kisses down the curve of his throat, wondering why this isn't enough to keep the crossroads demon away.

He writes the words on Dean's skin with his tongue, knowing there's no real protection or power in them, and wishing there were. Dean's breath hitches and his body trembles as he wakes under Sam's mouth and hands. Sam laughs, the sound edged with hysteria and desperation, against Dean's shoulder, telling himself the salt on his tongue is sweat, not tears, and protection enough to keep the demon away.

No greater love than this, he thinks, and when Dean rolls over and pulls him in for a wet, sleep-warm kiss, with the slick slide of his tongue in Dean's mouth, Sam swears he'll figure out a way to get back what Dean's given up for him.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> The Quinquae Viae, or Five Ways, are the five proofs of the existence of God summarized by Thomas Aquinas in his _Summa Theologiae_. The dialogue in section two comes from the episode "Wendigo."


End file.
